


Meet me in Cognito, baby. In Cognito, we'll have nothing to hide.

by Gallavich1012, NotHereNJ (efficaceous)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gallavich Endgame, Happy ending and Happy Endings, If this isn't your thing, M/M, There are references to a sex worker being given ilicit substances for the purpose to abuse., please avoid, this is MOSTLY tooth rotting fluff and happiness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29084979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallavich1012/pseuds/Gallavich1012, https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/NotHereNJ
Summary: Mickey's a stripper, and he's quite happy about it. But then a regular develops an unhealthy obsession with him, and things progress...Or, did you ever read Bad Reputation but want it be in a happy land where everyone is happy an no one ever gets hurts? Here ya go.(Really just wanted an excuse for Mickey to dance in a crop top....)
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 38
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

It was Friday night and Mickey was dancing. Not that stupid swaying shit straight guys did if they were drunk enough, and got hassled by their girlfriends. Nope, Mickey was in his groove, sparkly shorts far too tight, black band tee cropped high enough that he got a few comments on the small tattoo below his left pec. His hair was gelled back, and he’d dipped into the makeup box for some eyeliner and glitter. All strippers used glitter, it was just a question of how much and how often. Mickey liked to use it strategically, not cause he wanted to look like an anime boy, but just to pull men’s eyes. Pull their eyes, then their cash.

He was up dancing on the box, not the main show, but still attracting plenty of attention. The DJ was playing some new shit, but Mickey could dance to anything. When it was his turn on stage, the DJ knew to come through with the 80’s classic rock. Something about the air guitar and the running slides on his knees really seemed to get the crowd goin’.

But for now, he was just moving to the beat of some  [ techno remix ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XpJxFf9nGEQ&list=RDXpJxFf9nGEQ&start_radio=1) , eyes half shut against the flashing lights that matched the rhythm of the song. 

“Hey, babyface!” The guy could  **_not_ ** be talkin’ to him. Yeah, so Mickey was slightly underage. His ID and paperwork all said otherwise though, and he needed the cash. Short of goin’ in with his family on the latest dumbass nefarious scam, this was what Mickey was good at. 

He’d dropped out of high school at 15, too many rules and too much bullshit. Stripping, now stripping was easy. He came to work, he had a good time, guys bought him some drinks and a few lap dances, he took home a fat wad of cash. Find a greasy spoon and load up on carbs, go home, avoid Terry, crash, sleep late, then put some time in at the gym. An ass like this came from dedication: to food and squats.

“Baby! Hey, baby!” Mickey gritted his teeth and opened his eyes just a slit. It was his least favorite client, a regular, Howard. Howie, he told Mickey to call him every week, and every week, Mickey stuck to Howard. Howie was, like, an amusement park dog mascot or some shit.

“Little busy here, Howard,” Mickey bit through his teeth, rolling his eyes closed, body still moving with the beat of the music. 

“C’mon, baby, don’t be like that,” Howie slurred causing Mickey to clench his jaw in annoyance and get creative with his dancing so he could turn away from the man who thankfully backed off for the moment. 

Mickey finally let his body relax again, letting all of that tension go, he really didn’t need his nerves translating in his dancing, messing up his flow, clients could always tell and it would significantly impact his tips. However he must have been doing a pretty damn good job because he could feel a hot gaze burning like a lightning rod down his body. 

His eyes fluttered open in the thrumming colorful lights, looking around until he spotted where that gaze was coming from and working his body a little more. The guy was hot, just his type too. A tall ginger, with broad shoulders, crooked jaw, and a filthy smirk. The only issue was he was dressed, well, rather raggedy. Now Mickey wasn’t one to judge but he didn’t look like the type that was gonna leave him a tip worth his troubles. But man, did he like the way this man was looking at him, that lusty gaze enough to fill his wet dreams for weeks. 

What could it really hurt to put on a show for a minute before he found someone to shower him on cash. Rocking and rolling his body to the beat of the song and biting his bottom lip obscenely as he locked eyes with the man. He sat leaned back in the chair, beer in hand, insanely long legs spread out and there was no denying the bulge in those dirty work jeans. Yep, that was definitely spank back gold right there. 

They were on the same wavelength, working each across the crowded room, when his nice, peaceful, ginger filled bubble popped when Howie’s face entered his line of sight with a shit eating grin and made a sorry pout. “Alex, baby, I got just what you need. You know I do. 

‘ _ Really fuckin doubt it, Howard, _ ’ Mickey thought to himself. Howard had paid for enough lap dances that Mickey knew pretty much exactly how little he was packing downstairs. Some guys were into that, the whole motion of the ocean, not the size of the wave, but not Mickey. Mickey didn’t take his glittery gold briefs off for less than eight inches. 

He tried to look around Howard to see that sexy ginger but Howard waved a wad of benjamins in his face and Mickey took note. Occasionally, this was Howard’s MO. It was the only reason Mickey hadn’t had him blacklisted before tonight, because sometimes, he came in with truly obscene amounts of cash, and he wanted to give it all to Mickey. He was almost positive Howie knew it too. 

What could he say? Cash talked. He gave Howard his attention, doing his job, well aware his manager kept an eye on Mickey. Matt was convinced there was something  _ wrong  _ about Mickey, which, ok, there was, from the fake last name to the false ID and social security number, even to his age and legality. But still. Matt was a dick, and he was always looking for an excuse to cut Mickey’s hours.

Batting his lashes, he bent over, giving the men behind him a nice view, giving the ginger a nice view, and brought himself down to Howard’s eye level. “What’d you have in mind, Howard?” 

Howard wasn’t quite drooling, but it was a close thing as he dragged his eyes over Mickey’s body. “Uh… Champagne room? Lap dance? Maybe a private party?”

‘Private party’ was a euphemism for hooking. Mickey  _ didn’t  _ turn tricks. He sometimes banged a dude, if they were hot enough and polite. But that was pretty fuckin rare. Still, Mickey needed to get Howard back there so he could start peeling the hundred dollar bills out of his hands and into Mickey’s pockets, so he played along, as if it would be possible on any planet for Howard to fuck him.

Mickey smirked to hide his grimace. It wasn’t that Howie wasn’t good looking. He was actually pretty attractive for his age, and the money helped but the guy was just… creepy. He gave off weird vibes and it never failed that Mickey had to slap wandering hands away from his ass at least once every time he visited. He knew what going into the champagne room entailed and a private party wasn’t exactly part of his payroll but Matt didn’t really give a shit what went on in the champagne room because that’s where most of the club’s money came from. 

Before Mickey could say anything, Howie reached up and slid a couple bills into the waistband of his shorts and nodded towards the black leather sofa. Mickey fought the urge to roll his eyes. Letting out a huff of air, Mickey climbed down from the box, letting Howie get a nice view of his ass as he did. 

Anonymous hands reached out to help Mickey, which he didn’t need, but it gave the rubes something to jerk off to, the idea that they’d gotten to touch him, somehow. As he straightened up, another generically suited man offered him a drink, some warm brown liquid in a short glass. 

Normally, Mickey would’ve looked up, caught the bartender’s eyes for confirmation that it was safe, but the bar was packed three layers deep, and besides, there wasn’t time. Mickey decided to take his chances, and threw back the drink, making sure to gulp while his chin was raised. If it looked a little bit like he was swallowing a load, well, that was the whole point. He rubbed his lips dry with the pad of his thumb, putting on a bit of a show, and followed an anxiously excited Howard to the champagne room.

He threw a heated look over his shoulder at that hot ginger who was still watching him and winked. He got a dirty smirk in return before he was disappearing through the crowds of customers. 

Champagne rooms always sounded like some fancy, rich spot, but at DADDY’S BOYZ, it was only marginally above par. Most places used closets; closets with heavy carpeting and dark lighting, but closets nonetheless. This place, however, gave each dancer his own small space to decorate (with his own cash, of course.) It made the space, only marginally larger than said closet, seem more personal, less creepy. 

Mickey’d decorated his space in a parody of a porn set. There was a single bed, rich yellow sheets, a burgundy coverlet that had more DNA on it than a CSI crime lab, and an old emerald green up-cycled  [ velvet couch ](https://ak1.ostkcdn.com/images/products/17801601/Milani-Tufted-Scroll-Arm-Velvet-Loveseat-by-Christopher-Knight-Home-001846f4-1f3b-4477-861b-8f91948e6263_1000.jpg?imwidth=400&impolicy=medium) . That had been Mandy’s find. The back was just the right height if Mickey backwards knelt on the seat that he could rest his shoulders, hands, or head on it. Or grip it tightly if he happened to be getting fucked. One the last wall, Behind a straight backed chair, he’d installed a fake window, opaque glass lit from behind.

The sound system back here wasn’t good, but at least Mickey had control of his own space. He grudgingly held Howard’s hand as he led him back, surreptitiously flicking through the playlist until he came up with the song he wanted.

As per regulations, they started out seated, Mickey on the bed, Howard on the loveseat.

“So whadya want tonight, Howard?” He didn’t bother trying to put a sweet sound in his voice, didn’t try to upsell. This was work, and he’d do it, but he didn’t want to give Howard any indications that it was, or could ever be, more than that. 

Howard leaned back, pretending to think. It was all a charade, a shitty power play. Howard had known what he wanted the minute he walked into the club tonight, maybe even as soon as he woke up next to his prissy wife that morning.

“What are my choices, Alex?” His voice slurred a little, which was unusual. Howard nearly always kept a clear head on nights he made it back to the Champagne room. But that wasn’t Mickey’s problem. Even if he was high, he could still pass the cash, and they weren’t doing anything that would require consent.

Stifling another eye roll, Mickey went through the same spiel he had memorized.

“You get three songs for $200, 15 minutes for $300, 30 minutes for $500.” He watched carefully to see if Howard noticed the price increases. Technically Mickey could set whatever price he wanted, but when it was someone he didn’t want to spend time with, he upped the price to try and deter them. These prices were about twice his usual rate, enough to make it worth smelling Howard’s stale coffee breath on his neck.

*“I want a whole hour with you, Alex, maybe the whole night,” Howard replied dreamily. 

“That ain’t an option. 3 songs, 15 minutes, or 30,” Mickey repeated flatly. An hour, or a whole night had implications. He wouldn’t be just dancing for hours on end, oh no. Howard wanted Mickey to do so much more. 

“Fine, thirty,” Howard whined.

“And the rules?”

“I know the rules. You can touch me, but I can’t touch you.” The accompanying pout distorted any claim to attraction Howard’s face had held, making him look like a pissy toddler.

“Right.” Mickey tapped his smartwatch and started the first  [ song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9cBUrIw2sQk) . It was slow, and a little moody, but it also held a passive aggressive dig at his customer. 

Mickey started in the middle of the room, just slowly gliding along, hands raised as if he were at the world’s chillest rave, letting the rhythm of the music move through his body. He was a good three feet from Howard, which was fine. The further the better, though there wasn’t  _ much  _ room in the small room. He was starting to feel a bit tingly as he kicked off his shoes, letting his feet turn and twist and step, but ignored it. Chalking up the feeling to the few drinks he’d had over the course of the evening. The routine incorporated a few classical moves he’d picked up, showing off his flexibility and strength, running his hands over his own legs and body, letting the client imagine those hands on their body instead. It wasn’t the  [ sexiest dance ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sE3qmX5MfB4) , but it was a great warm up, sensual and moody. His heart was pounding, despite this not being the most athletic song, but he chalked it up to nerves. 

As the song played on, he’d let one extended foot touch Howard’s knee, then brought it back, all part of the tease. Next a hand, whispering along the back of the couch and Howard’s neck. The routine was all about Mickey’s body, letting his client just stare and appreciate him, more than any touching. It wasn’t for just anyone, of course. Some clients wanted a straight up lapdance, rubbing off on Mickey’s ass and then tossing a twenty on the bed. Thanks, but no thanks. Mickey rarely accepted those clients back. Howard, at least, knew enough to let Mickey do his thing first. 

But just because Howard knew the rules and  _ usually  _ let Mickey do his own thing didn’t mean he was the best behaved client. He very frequently ‘forgot’ the no touching rule. Mickey would slap his hands away and normally he would stop, sometimes he wouldn’t. He only had to call security on Howie once and the man ended up giving him and Matt both a fat stack to make up for the trouble and assure that he wouldn’t be barred from the club. Now he more or less kept his hands to himself unless Mickey was feeling generous and guided his hands over his body but he  _ never  _ allowed him, or any other client, to just freely touch him. 

The next song in the queue came up, a [ mid-00’s banger ](https://youtu.be/u0n4eMGXAyk) that let Mickey use the bass to change positions frequently. From Howard’s lap to crawling on his knees, from his knees to his front, an almost-twerking push-up position, then wrapping himself all around Howard again. The contact was tolerable, so long as it was quick, and Mickey ran through the motions on autopilot. When he’d choreographed the  [ routine ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sk7XzBReRUY) , he’d had someone else in mind as his play toy, someone he was hell-bent on teasing as much as possible. There was some quick footwork, a few fakeouts, full body drops to the floor, even some air guitar. 

Every time he hovered backwards over Howard’s lap, he could feel the energy radiating off the other man, the creep of his fingers, longing to grab Mickey, hold him in place. That was part of why he kept moving, changing position so often, refusing to be held down or captured. As the song built to its crescendo, Howard’s left hand began its stealthy crawl, up Mickey’s thigh, finally snagging in his belt loop. Automatically, Mickey slapped at the offending hand, and it withdrew. 

At the end of the song, Mickey sat cross legged on the floor, panting, still unusually winded and dizzy, across from Howard’s legs, facing away from him, waiting for the next song to come on. He needed to take it down a notch, back to the artistic shit, but unfortunately when he’d made this playlist, it had all been about teasing and building up desire. The song was by a  [ gypsy punk band ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=togaki_GSxk) , and it was about playing with gender roles. The voices and music seemed to contradict each other, but his  [ dance ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2MwzJz_I2qY) brought the two together with a mixture of pole dancing and shaking his ass. The crop top kept lifting, showing off little glimpses of his pebbled nipples.

Howard was eating this shit up, even though he’d seen every dance Mickey had at least five times over. He was leaning forward, not even subtle as he stroked himself through his polyester slacks. Mickey turned towards him, glancing down as he writhed, pressing his chest out, making a perfect platform for Howard to push a few bills into his shirt. 

The asshole had other ideas, because while his hand did reach up to Mickey’s crop top, it wasn’t holding any cash. Mickey’s mind was moving slowly, far too slowly, because before he’d realized what was even happening, Howard had grabbed the front of Mickey’s shirt, trying to pull him down to a kiss.

Fuck  _ that _ . 

Mickey yanked himself away, a little off balance. “Last fucking warning, asshole.”

Howard held up his hands, all innocence. “Just wanted a little more contact, baby. When’re you gonna be in my lap?”

Gritting his teeth, Mickey backed up to him as the next song came on. “ [ _ Porn Star Dancing _ . ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c2Fnet0y9Ts) ” Perfect, hopefully it would make Howard feel as creepy as he actually was. It was rocky, harsh, and in your face.

Half-heartedly, Mickey began his usual lap routine, feeling oddly woozy, head light, hands smoothing down Howard’s thin thighs, then back to his waist, pulling him even closer as he rocked and rode the guy. Normally, this was a guy’s invitation to possibly caress Mickey’s chest, or just hump up into his ass. But Howard was off his shit tonight, Mickey decided, because he curled on hand around, trying to feel for Mickey’s dick. As if Mickey could ever got hard from Howard’s crappy body.

Mickey leapt up, stumbling across the room in two steps, looking up at the camera in the corner. They had those cameras so none of this shit could happen- so why wasn’t anyone coming for him? There was a second option…

He looked at Howard, who had pulled his insufficiently interesting cock out of his pants and was yanking it with a speed that looked painful, eyes squeezed shut. “God yeah, take it, you slut.”

Mickey hit the well-concealed panic button by the door, trying to control his anger. The reason, the  _ only  _ reason he worked back here alone was the promise of the cameras for protection. He shouldn’t have to resort to a fucking panic button. 

If Howard noticed Mickey’s actions or rising rage, his words didn’t show it, just continued to pour filth, “Fuckin’ cum slut. I bet you’ve been with twenty guys tonight, maybe two hundred this week, bet your ass is a fuckin’ water slide of-”


	2. Chapter 2

Ian had come in late, just to check in, taking his time walking through the crowded floor, making his way back to the main office and collect the night’s cash. All the customers looked happy, and the dancers looked hot. One in particular, in a black crop top, dancing on a platform, surrounded by adoring fans. Ian would have liked to join them, passing bills up in hopes of a smile from those bluest of blue eyes. But that wasn’t the job. As the owner, it was his job to keep his employees safe and legal, not fantasize about their assess and thick thighs.

Drinks were selling, and even the security guard’s scowl wasn’t quite as deep as usual. A perfect night. He slid into the hidden door that led to the offices, tossing a wave to the floor manager. Crossing his arms over his chest, Ian felt a wave of pride as he looked around at what he’d built. Everything seemed to be running along smoothly. 

He checked the cameras- every Champagne room had at least one, and if the room was occupied, the camera ran automatically as long as there were bodies inside. At least - that was how the system had been designed to run. But room 19, despite being marked occupied, was dark. Not dark, like the lights were out and maybe two friendly, consenting, adults were hooking up. Dark like the camera either wasn’t on, or was blocked. His gut twisted and he had a bad feeling about the whole thing.

That was when he saw the red light go on for Champagne Room 19. The red light meant panic. He glanced up at the camera for the room, but it was just as blurry.  _ Shit _ . He didn’t know whose room it was, the dancers changed more than he could keep track of, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that one of his employees, a person he’d promised to keep safe, needed help.

He was quickly striding towards the rooms, waving down Matt and their head of security, Steve. He would get there first and he knew it, though it wouldn’t be the first time he had to intervene in a situation like this, but it never ended well when he did. 

_ The fuck?  _ Ian though as he reached for the handle only to find it locked. The doors were  _ never  _ supposed to be locked even if the dancers were trying to hook up because anything could happen and they were supposed to be able to get in at all times. He had a master key for a reason though. 

_ “Fuckin’ cum slut. I bet you’ve been with twenty guys tonight, maybe two hundred this week, bet your ass is a fuckin’ water slide of cum”  _ Ian could hear from the other side of the door as he turned the lock. 

His stomach churned in disgust from both the foul words and the sight before him. He recognized this guy from around the club, someone who frequently creeped out his dancers and he recognized the beautiful boy from earlier, on the ground under the creeper. 

Ian lunged forward, fisting his hands in the back of Howard’s shirt, pulling him off and slamming him against the wall. He vaguely saw the boy scooting away but all of his attention was on this creep now as he let him drop to the floor and kneeled over him, slamming his fist into the pervs face over and over. 

“You ever touch one of my dancers again, I’m not gonna go so easy on you, do you hear me?” 

  
  


_ Mickey was huddled against the back wall, feeling the carpet under his fingers as he ran them back and forth, knees pulled to his chest, shaking. He knew he shouldn’t be reacting this way; fuck,  _ **_he_ ** _ should be kicking Howard’s ass. But something was holding him back, the world a little fuzzy at the edges, and eerily soft, far away. _

  
  


Distantly, Ian realized he was beating the shit out of the creep, skirting dangerously close to assault charges. They wouldn’t stick, obviously, he was protecting his employee, but it would be better if he, and the kid, didn’t have to deal with the cops too on top of this craptastic night. He pulled back, letting out the breath he’d been holding, and watched the cretin try and crawl to the door. Ian let him get halfway across the threshold before he hurried the guy along, with the sole of his boot.  _ Hard _ . Being kicked out was literal around here, for shit like this. He could Steve and Matt yanking the creep up by his shoulders, searching his pockets for cash to throw on the bed, then dragging him through the main club’s dance floor. It was actually good for business: showed the employees what he was willing to do to keep them safe, and provided an object lesson for other “guests” who might be inclined to make a similar mistake in the future. He made a note to get the guy’s ID and blacklist him, not just from here, but from every single Gallagher business. And there were quite a few.

A slight noise behind him brought Ian back to the present, and he turned, seeing the kid crouched on the floor, eyes somewhere else.  _ Fuck, was he high?  _ He’d instituted a serious anti-drug policy during working hours, but it was a strip club for gay men, there were always gonna be some people breaking the rules. He just hoped the kid wasn’t having a bad trip. He carefully stepped closer, then crouched in front of the kid, trying to make eye contact.

The blue eyes danced back and forth once, twice, then met his. That was good, a good sign.

“Hey, I’m Ian. What’s your name?” It was the only thing he could think to say, so distracted by the depths of color and intensity he saw in those eyes. They looked so world-weary, tired, jaded even. But his face was young, skin creamy with a few light freckles across the bridge of his nose that made him look younger than he was. At least, Ian played that was why he looked so young.

“Hey, can you tell me your name?” Ian asked again, brow furrowing when those dazed eyes just looked at him. 

“Kid, are you high?” Ian asked, fighting the urge to roll his eyes because maybe he was just in shock, but all he got was a head shake. 

_ Mickey stared at the guy, confused out of his goddamn mind. Everything was starting to get fuzzier. After he hit the panic button he couldn’t remember anything or how much time passed before the beautiful red head busted in and started beating on Howard. Why the fuck was this guy even in here, Mickey though as his eyes scanned Ian’s clothes but didn’t actually process it.  _

_ He could make out the guy asking him something but it was too hard to concentrate. His brows shot up to his hairline when he, this guy Ian, asked for a second time if he was high.  _

_ “Not high. And I’m not a kid,” He grumbled, the words coming out slurred as he raised a hand to his throbbing head, trying to remember what happened.  _

_ Happy. Dancing. Hot redhead. Howard. champagne room. Disgusting lap dance. Dizziness.  _

_ Dizzy? Why would he be dizzy?  _

_ Happy. Dancing. Howard. Hot redhead. Howard. Drink. Champagne room. Disgusting lap dance. Dizziness.  _

_ Dizzy? He hadn’t had that many drinks tonight. Hadn’t taken any party favors so why was he so damn dizzy?  _

_ “Oh, so he does speak?” Ian asked and Mickey fought the urge to flip him off.  _

Ian paused for a minute though when he realized how lethargic this guy seemed. He thought back to when he first started the club: he had taken several classes on first response for emergencies and how to tell if someone’d been drugged. His heart sank when he though back to the class about date rape drugs and had the over whelming urge to go find that prick and quite literally kill him. 

The kid was shaking. He was lethargic, confused, had slurred speech, slowed breathing, and his vision was impaired, if his ability to focus was any indication. 

Ian was almost positive the creep slipped him something, most likely roofied him. Customers very frequently bought dancers drinks but the dancers knew to double check with the bar to be sure it was safe. His instinctive urge was to wrap the kid up in a coat and take him home, tuck him away somewhere safe, maybe feed him soup, but he suppressed it. This was a working professional who had just been assaulted. 

“So, not high, you want me just to keep callin’ you Kid, or what?”

Those thick brows went up and then down again, like he was slowly processing Ian’s request. It took another long moment, then Ian finally got a reply.

“Mi- Alex. ‘M Alex.” 

“Ok, good. You’re Alex, I’m Ian. See, now we’re friends. You think you can stand up, Alex?” 

“Course I fuckin’ can.” The scowl was back, and Ian sat back on his heels, watching with no little amusement as the kid steadied himself on the wall before finally getting to his feet, a little like a baby dachshund, all thick body and wobbles.

“I’m good now, you can go do whatever…” the kid waved a hand, “the fuck you were doin’ before you came in here lookin’ like  [ Captain Save-a-Ho ](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=NKPZAOBSen4&list=RDAMVMNKPZAOBSen4) .”

Maybe if Alex hadn’t looked quite so green around the gills, or so unsteady, leaning on the wall for support, Ian might have believed him. As it was, he stood, stepping back, trying to give him breathing room, while still being in reach to catch him if he went down. Fell down.  _ Fuck _ . He should not be thinking about an employee like this, much less one who’d just been assaulted.

Ian’s hand shot out to steady Alex, trying not to think too hard about the fact that his hand was on the boy's bare waist. 

“Hey, look, I think we should get out of here. Head to the back and get you some water or something. Get you sobered up a bit-“

“I said I’m not high! I’m not- I didn’t take anything!” Alex exclaimed, stuttering and looking away from Ian. 

“I get that maybe you didn’t deliberately take anything but you’re drugged out of your mind right now, which means that asshole probably slipped you something. I just wanna help man-“

“I don’t  _ need  _ help and I don’t want it. I don’t even know you: you’re clearly just another guy trying to get me to the back to fuck me just like every one else that comes here-“ 

“Hey! It’s not like that, I would never-“ Ian shook his head cutting himself off when Alex’s knees wobbled under him. 

Ian really didn’t want to spook the kid when he realized he had no idea that Ian was his boss. He did blame himself, but it happened sometimes. He didn’t spend nearly as much time at the club as when it first opened. The newer dancers and the baby dancers rarely knew who he was when he went months in between visits. 

Alex was far from a baby dancer though, he knew what he was doing and he was damn good at it- Ian shook his head berating himself once again for thinking that way about the boy in front of him. 

“Yeah, sure. That’s what they all say,  _ Ian,”  _ Alex sneered but it was in complete contrast to the way he gripped Ian’s forearms to keep himself upright. 

“Fuck, man, come on, please just let me help you,” Ian pleaded, face softening as he looked at the boy. Something in those blue eyes had his heart clenching painfully in his chest when he nodded slowly and moved his hands to squeeze Ian’s shoulders instead. 

“I gotta get back on the floor; I’m still on the clock. Just-” there was another of those worrying stutters. “Just lemme do my fuckin’ job and stop being a creeper,  _ Ian _ .” It shouldn’t have thrilled Ian to hear his name on the kid’s lips, especially not in such a mocking tone, but his dick didn’t seem to have received the memo. The feeling of that hot, soft skin under his hand, the way his lips moved- it was nothing and yet he was unaccountably aroused by it all. It was like the kid was walking candy, sex on a stick, and Ian was helpless to do anything but drool over him.

“We can go get some food; let me talk to your boss” Ian hedged. It was technically true that Matt was Alex’s boss, but it was also true that Ian was Matt’s boss. Alex just didn’t know that part yet. He was legitimately worried about Alex. Either he was really high and not copping to it, which means he couldn’t work there anymore, or he was been drugged, which was a crime. Neither was a good answer, both led to a shit load of paperwork for Ian when all he  _ really  _ wanted was to feed the kid and take him home and tuck him into Ian’s big, empty bed.

“You don’t gotta do that, man. Just gimme whatever you were gonna spend on food, and we’ll call it even.”

Ian respected the move, dancers were all about the cash, but he wasn’t going to fall for it. “Give me five minutes, just sit here and I’ll talk to him. You like pancakes? We’ll go get some pancakes, banana ones.” Ian realized he was rambling and abruptly stopped.

Alex didn’t seem particularly convinced by Ian’s pleas. He looked him up and down, the painted-spattered jeans and worn chambray shirt, assessing. So Ian hadn’t dressed to impress tonight, didn’t mean he didn’t own a $3000 suit. Just that he didn’t feel the need to wear it out every night of the week. He’d passed the phase of his life where he felt the need to have everyone in the room looking at him, desiring him. 

Or so he’d thought. Because right now, he wanted Alex to see past the ratty clothing and see him, want him. 

So when the boy nodded and slowly sat down on the lone chair next to the door, slowly counting the bills Alex had pulled from Howard’s pockets on his way out, Ian smiled before pulling away. Alex was still eyeing him suspiciously and Ian pushed down the urge to laugh at him knowing he was probably on edge but either way Ian loved that attitude already. 

He settled for a subtle upturn of his lips as he backed up and left to find Matt. 


	3. Chapter 3

Banana pancakes sounded fucking fantastic, actually. But Mickey had no intention of going anywhere with this yahoo until Matt rolled in, waving his hands and squawking about paperwork and cops. Mickey realized that if he just left with the stranger, Matt would shut up, and this would all go away. He could ditch the tall red head as soon as they’d gotten a block away.

Or at least, that was his plan. Somehow, instead, he found himself wrapped in a leather jacket that decidedly was not his own, all buttery soft and smelling like expensive cologne, and bundled into an old  [ Mercedes diesel sedan ](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/ac/1988_Mercedes-Benz_300d_Diesel_Automatic_3.0_Front.jpg) . It looked sketchy from the outside, but  [ the seats ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/16/aa/49/16aa49792af57cd67a14500aa240684e.jpg) were full and soft, there was wood paneling everywhere, and the engine purred. Mickey had kind of given up protesting, deciding that whoever the guy was, Ian, or whatever, he seemed to have connections at the club, at the very least. Connections usually meant cash, so Mickey would wait and see. Plus, the hum of the engine and the gentle swaying of the suspension was lulling him to sleep, head resting on the passenger side window glass. If this was how he got murdered, fucked to death in the most decadent outfit and vehicle he’d ever touched? Well, that was one way to go.

He thought about pancakes, and whether that was code for sex. If it was, it was the world’s shittiest codeword. But as he subtly side-eyed Ian, he figured at least the guy was hot. Coulda been worse. Coulda been fuckin’  _ Howard _ , or some other Northside preppie asshole. This guy’s hands looked like they’d done real work, like they could hold him down, rough him up a little, the way he liked. He had this  [ auburn five o’clock shadow on his jaw ](https://scontent.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.15752-0/s206x206/140758607_238421844598125_1551271058825613799_n.jpg?_nc_cat=107&ccb=2&_nc_sid=58c789&_nc_ohc=IMa_EhjZpz0AX-3Wn8A&_nc_ad=z-m&_nc_cid=0&_nc_ht=scontent.xx&tp=7&oh=cb36209f6017fc5e36c46bf2bf6681a4&oe=603921B5) , emphasizing how sharp it was, and he kept shooting Mickey these little glances, like he couldn’t believe Mickey was really there, or that he’d open the door and do a barrel roll if he stopped checking.

He was still dizzy and tired and every time they hit a bump a little too roughly it made him feel nauseous. But despite all of that his eyes kept rolling down as they drove past the city light. All he wanted to do was snuggle under something warm and pass out. 

“Here, put these on,” Ian spoke, dropping what looked like a pair of black sweat pants in his lap. 

“What-“ Mickey sat up looking around to see that they were in the parking lot of a diner.  _ Patsy’s.  _ He’d been here a handful of times, it wasn’t far from his house at all. 

“Come on. I mean unless you wanna eat pancakes in those?” Ian raised a brow as he pointed to the sparkly shorts Mickey was wearing, chuckling when started grumbling and pulling on the sweats. 

Ian could help but watch the way the material slid up those smooth thick thighs. He also may or may not have watched the boy lift up in the seat as watched him tug the pants over that beautiful ass. Ian bit the inside of his cheek and looked away, turning the vehicle off and getting out. 

Mickey rolled his eyes, the guy wasn’t subtle at all just blatantly checking him out as he covered himself in the soft material. He followed Ian out of the car and huffed at himself. The sweats were too long, bunched up at his ankles and riding dangerously low on his hips. The leather jacket was practically swallowing him whole and the sleeves were so long his fingertips just barely poked out of the ends. He shivered when the wind blew and cold air slithered against his bare midriff, so he swallowed his pride and pulled the jacket tight around his body to keep the offending wind away from his skin. 

“The fuck are you looking at?” Mickey snapped, looking over at Ian standing towards the front of the car just looking at him. 

“Oh, uh, nothing, sorry, here: this goes with it,” Ian cleared his throat before handing over the  [ black bomber leather jacket ](https://media.bergdorfgoodman.com/images/f_auto,q_auto/01/3474071_m/ermenegildo-zegna-lamb-leather-bomber-jacket) , covering by gesturing to the door of the diner. He watched as Mickey tried to hide the fact that he was still stumbling and impressed with the coat but it didn’t really work and Ian had to fight the urge to once again reach out to steady him. 

Eventually they both made it in food, but not before a little tussle for dominance: who would open the door for whom? Ian tried first, long arm reaching past ‘Alex’, trying to impress him. But Mickey, catching onto Ian’s ruse, was rocked back on his heels, arm outstretched, leading Ian through the door first. Ian didn’t have any ego to lose, so he gracefully sauntered through. First it meant that he, not Alex, got to talk to the hostess, a young man with a polite mien, promptly dropping his attentiveness to Ian as soon as Alex walked in. 

  
“Mickey? Jesus, man, where you been?”

Alex, no,  _ Mickey  _ flushed, casting a glance at Ian. “Been around, been good. How’s White Boy Carl holdin’ up?”

This was truly surreal. Carl, Ian’s own younger, arguably more-fucked up brother, knew … Mickey?

“Makin’ tips, gettin’ numbers,” Carl grinned. “But I bet you're here for your usual table?”

“It open?” With a nod, Carl led them to a table consciously set in the back corner. Ian picked the seat with his back to the door, conveniently allowing Mickdey to have a clear view of all the windows and exits. It seemed to calm him, slightly. The extensive menu, did not. 

“Thirteen dollars for banana pancakes?” Mickey looked at Carl’s fleeing back before turning to Ian, accusingly, as if he had anything to do with setting the prices. Well, he did, but Mickey couldn't know that.

“They come with nutella, bananas, and berries. Fresh squeezed juice, plus free refills on the coffee.” He knew by the wheedling in his voice that he was dangerously close to begging Mickey to like him, to like his little diner.

“Free refills? Hey, man, hook me up!” Alex/Mickey dumped his silverware and napkin out of the white mug and started casing the joint for a likely coffee carafe. Ian watched, then casually held up a single finger.

Instantly, a young girl in a clean white apron appeared by his side. “Yeah, boss?”

“Coffee for my friend here. Is that carafe fresh?” The girl, who couldn't have been more than 15, nodded exaggeratedly. Ian made a note to mock Debbie that night at home for this ‘yes, boss’ bullshit.

Mickey wasn’t even phased, just pushed his mug closer to the edge of the table until Debs caught the hint, filling it until Mickey pulled it back.

“But there’s-”

“I like room in my coffee,” was all the reply they got. 

“Want whip on that?” Debbie was being her usual flirty self, pulling the redi-whip out of its hip holster at her side, not realizing that Mickey likely played for the other team, but Ian wanted to see how this played out.

Ian indicated his own mug, and she filled it nearly to the brim. Mickey was busy, spooning stupid amounts of white sugar into his cup and then opening every single little singe server shelf-stable creamer to dump into his mug. He hadn't been kidding when he said he needed room- Ian doubted he could lift the overfull mug without spilling or ending up with coffee on his nose.

An unhelpful part of his brain supplied an image of Ian, leaning across the table, tasting it on his lips and licking it from the tip of his freckled nose. Fuck. 

“So now I know three things about you for sure,” Ian said, voice deliberately calm.

“The fuck you do, stalker.” Mickey’s scowl lost some of its potency coming over the mug topped with whipped cream, but it was clearly meant to be a fearsome thing.

Ian put up a finger. “One, your name’s not Alex. It’s Mickey. So I can see why you ‘d wanna change that shit.”

“For your information, asshole, Mickey is short for Mikhailo, means descended from Ukranian kings.”

“Short, huh?”

Mickey shot him the finger, but the effect was lessened as he continued to mainline the coffee, which was seeming to help him feel more sober. 

Ian filed that away for future use and continued.

“Two, you didn’t look at my brother or my sister, so while you maybe a sex worker, you’re not looking for trade, at least not right this second. Or maybe they’re too young for you, too inexperienced?” That last was a shot in the dark, but hey, Ian had played Daddy a time or two before. 

Mickey made a pouty-kissy face, smushing up his words. “Baby wanna kiss..”

Ian gave him what he wanted: an over-the-top laughing reaction, cracked up, laughed until tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes and he put his head down on the sticky table just taking deep breaths. Mickey was so goofy: the bluntness and brashness was just a facade, a necessary one, but a facade nonetheless. And he was finally starting to see the littlest bit past it. Ian liked what he saw.

Sitting up, Ian bit back a grin. Two for two ,  _ and  _ he hadn’t denied the Daddy thing, which turned him on a little. Mickey was getting more and more attractive by the moment.

Before Ian could metaphorically drive home the notion that the two of them were a perfect fit, on so many levels, Carl returned laden with Ian’s breakfast plates, Debbie on his heels with a fresh carafe of coffee to leave behind.

His plate was delivered first, protecting Ian from having to answer the questions Mickey's eyes had been shooting at him for the last few minutes.

“Oatmeal with a side fruit and crispy bacon? What kinda human are you?” The pancake laden fork point at Ian’s plate did make a convincing point, but… 

“If I lose weight, I look like a scarecrow. And if I gain too much, Chucky doll. It’s a fine line I’m forced to walk.” He had his own fake pout, peeping at Mickey’s reaction.

His mouth was open, devoid of semi-masticated food, thank goodness. “Jesus, you’re right. You’d look either like a  [ Cabbage Patch ](https://i.etsystatic.com/13987722/r/il/4c7ee8/1826766338/il_570xN.1826766338_94ld.jpg) doll or  [ Ronald McDonald ](https://media.npr.org/assets/img/2011/05/20/ronaldmcdonald-48660cb3c334263d2993db4d38227592b5c53587-s800-c85.jpg) .” He made a point of pushing a half-cut, half torn piece of pancake onto Ian’s plate. “Eat up, before I feel like I'm eatin’ alone at Disneyland. “

“So, three?” The kid’s tone,  _ Mickey’s  _ tone, was aggressive, but curious.

Ian gestured between the coffee and Mickey’s dish of pancakes, dripping in syrup, chocolate chips, and whipped cream. “Third, you’ve got a serious sugar habit. Happens to some folks when they give up the booze.”

“Fuck you, I ain’t giving up shit. Just tastes better this way. And I gotta watch my figure- lose too much and my ass turns flat as cement. Not cute. Oh, no,” he mocked with a mushy mouthful of gooey dripping pancake in his mouth, “carbs!”

Ian just smiled and accepted the food, chewing happily,  [ leaning back on the open stonework and grinning. ](https://preview.redd.it/qogdbu9lu10z.jpg?width=640&crop=smart&auto=webp&s=8e2d0de549b4145a1e211e7059cad834c8cde247) Mickey seemed more and more relaxed as the meal went on, teasing Ian, cursing more, getting an astonishing amount of food on his face for an adult. Memtally, Ian was revising his age down to the barest legal age of 18 while he talked. Dropping out of high school, having a sister in beauty school, more older brothers than Ian could keep track of… He didn’t say word one about a mother or father, though. Mickey shoveled the food in, asking for second and thirds of everything, even when Ian assured him he could have a doggie bag.

[ Mickey looked at him funny, one brow half-raised ](https://img.wattpad.com/7da4af471677458835c802dd14b67f85b373c7c7/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f496131656b7364665245554d51773d3d2d3632303838343330352e313534633936333337633937373865663330333730303630303733352e676966?s=fit&w=720&h=720) . “Ain’t got a dog.”

“It’s-” Ian struggled not to laugh as he tried to explain, “like leftovers you take home so you can eat them again later. Not for a pet.”

“Oh. Yeah, ok.”

  
Debbie had already begun to drop off a few styrofoam containers with extra whipped cream, syrup, sugar packets, creamers, and anything else little and cheap she could shove in a paper bag. Once Mickey gave her the ok, she began to swiftly pile all the bits of food he hadn’t hoovevered up, in addition to some extras of everything, dropping Ian a broad wink.

“What’s that all about- you fuckin’ her or something?”

Ian was genuinely surprised. “The hair? The freckles? You think I’m that narcissistic that I’d fuck  _ her _ ? She’s my little sister. It was this or learn how to weld, and I think she’s gonna switch to welding school next year, no matter how many pictures I show her of guys missin’ toes.”

Mickey learned over. “You got any pics on ya?” Ian could feel his shoulder tingle at the nearness.

“Of me fucking my sister? Jesus, you’ve got  [ a dirty mind ](https://external-preview.redd.it/TgzyIDyNXpu9y8vTEZ6SB-U4HwmDkMXHL6TxLY0mX9s.jpg?auto=webp&s=69c9f58fdc93a701399344ec4e17567084a9ecce) .” But they both grinned at each other, and Ian fumbled around on his phone before he got to the Gallery titled “ [ Show To Debbie In Case of Poor Career Choices ](https://www.google.com/search?rlz=1C1CHBF_enUS905US906&sxsrf=ALeKk037xx5mLNE7S4NoypnWSmzaXr2dQA:1611846872309&source=univ&tbm=isch&q=gallery+of+missing+toes+from+welding&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjs5YXC9b7uAhUGGFkFHUoRDDQQjJkEegQIBBAB&biw=1536&bih=731&dpr=1.25) .”

They had a good time fake-cringing and laughing at the injuries, before the mood turned quieter. The light had begun to rise outside, and the overnight guys were heading out, and the early-bird runners were trickling in. 

Mickey wasn’t even pretending to suppress a yawn, he just stretched those muscled arms out wide, let his mouth fall open, coffee and syrup breath sprayin’ the table. It was as close to a classic “post-date” move Ian had ever seen, and he was more than a little disappointed when both of Mickey’s forearms returned to the table top. 

“Bout time for me to be movin’ on to the next phase of the night.” MIckey’s face was sly, and then it hit Ian. 

Mickey was testing him out, trying to see if the meal and conversation came with strings. Strings attached to his dick or his ass.

Frantically, Ian waved his hands, “No, no strings! Promise! Just go do whatever it is that stripper’s do at-” he checked his watch, “-five am.”

Mickey was watching him, doubt written all over his face.

“I’d be guessing,” Ian offered slowly, “That normally, food first, but we got that covered. Then maybe a shower, get that glitter off, it sticks like nobody’s business.”  _ Shit, too close to implying Ian did this all the fucking time, when he really, really didn’t.  _ “Look, I won’t even offer you a ride. I’ll just sit here and watch you go, and when I’m eighty, I’ll think back to the night I had brunner with the most beautiful stripper I ever met.”

Mickey stood up, face still not giving anything away including pulling Ian’s jacket more tightly around him. That was a good sign, at least.

As he passed Ian’s seat, he leaned down, just enough to whisper in his ear. “It’s breakfast for dinner. Get the fuck outta here with this  _ brunner  _ shit.”

Ian closed his eyes, inhaled. Fighting so hard to not reach out and touch this beautiful boy. 

Let Mickey go. Just let him go. 

“Night, Ian.” The voice was a whisper, a purr, a seductive promise. It was also another test. A typical John would follow that voice out, fall into it expecting more for the night.

Ian knew better. He fully restrained himself to a pleasant, non pressurized echo. “Night, Mick.”

Maybe he’d still be thinking of this encounter in 50 years, but for sure he’d be thinking about it next weekend, when he was fully prepared to look his part as he showed up at the strip club he owned. And probably a few times a day until then as well.


	4. Custom Art by Art of Obsession




	5. Chapter 5

“Son of a bitch,” Mickey groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He was lying on his stomach under a light blanket, and he could feel the beginnings of an erection pressed into the mattress under him.

He blinked quickly, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the bright late morning sun shining through the window. He could smell something porky, like bacon, wafting in and music playing in the kitchen. He pushed himself up and groaned again. 

He sighed, looking across the room and eyeing the black leather jacket he’d casually tossed over the back of his desk chair the night before. Fuck, he wanted a drink already and he’d just woken up: coffee would have to do. He threw the covers off and ran his hands over the black sweatpants he was still wearing. They were so soft and comfortable, they had to be expensive. When he’d gotten home last night, he just peeled off his glittery dancing shorts and put the sweats right back one. And even though he would never admit it, it kind of turned him on tp be going commando in the hot redhead’s pants. 

Finally pushing himself out of bed, rolling his eyes at the memory of the way the sweats had bunched up at his ankles and hung low enough to show off his v-line and happy trail. Fucking tall ass ginger mother fucker with these oversized sweat pants. 

“Morning, babes!” Mickey winced at Cole’s loud peppy voice and groaned again when he laughed. 

“Can you just- can you please turn that shit down, Cole,” Mickey pleaded, bringing a hand up to caress his pounding forehead. 

“Whose sweats are those? We miss a walk of shame or something?” Byron sniggered but didn’t hide the fact that he was checking Mickey out. It was never gonna happen ( _ again _ ) but the once was enough for Byron to have aspirations for the rest of their time together, platonic and professional though it was. Byron wanted any hot guy who walked by, bottom or top, just a sloppy ass slut. Mickey couldn’t cast aspersions, having partaken, but still. Bryon didn’t view men as people or humans, but as walking cash and dick dispensers. He was the king of dehumanization. 

“There was no fucking walk of shame. Long night. Though I think I might’ve gotten drugged. Some dude played superhero and gave me his coat and pants.” The whole story was grossly oversimplified but Mickey couldn’t, didn’t want to, explain anything else right now so instead he slid onto the bar stool and ignored the looks he was getting from the two men as Cole poured him coffee and sat two little white pills in front of him. 

Mickey took a moment taking a nice long sip of his coffee, not bothering with the cream or sugar, before dry swallowing down the pills. He was amused when he looked up to find two sets of eyes still staring at him. 

“Yeah?” Mickey asked, his eyebrows raising half way up his forehead, feigning shock, but he knew exactly what they wanted. 

“The fuck, Mick? You think you got drugged, some rando saved you and then gave you pants? Can you, oh, I don’t know, maybe elaborate on that?” Cole was exasperated, his hand wielding a baby blue spatula came to rest up on his cocked out hip. 

“Oh, yeah, that,” Mickey nodded slowly, taking another sip of his coffee. 

“Yeah. That. I mean, the fuck, Mickey. Are you at least, like, okay?” Byron asked voice dripping with false sympathy, and Mickey rolled his eyes before looking over at him. 

“Do I looking like I’m  _ not  _ fucking okay,” He snapped, but there was no real heat behind it, only annoyance. 

Mickey’s relationship with Byron was complicated, unlike his relationship with Cole. When he first met Cole he was working part time at  Garçons Paresseux

and Mickey was trying anything he could think of to get out of his dad's house. Cole was looking for a third roommate and even though he annoyed the shit out of Mickey, they did eventually become good friends, not that Mickey would admit it. 

Byron on the other hand, was clearly toxic. They started out as competition, then they turned into fuck buddies, then they started dating and then it went down hill real fast. See the thing about two bottoms dating is it just never really worked out. 

For Mickey, at least, he needed to have something shoved up his ass on the regular, be topped, to be pushed around and roughed up. He didn’t mind switching it up but Byron  _ always  _ wanted to bottom and Mickey was beyond bored of him in under a week. Plus he was a prick who thought he was better than Mickey because he went to college and knew about shit politics. 

Mickey ended up breaking up with him and was shocked when they were able to keep it civil enough to stay roommates. It helped that Cole was a great buffer. He knew them both well enough to know when to step in and keep them apart because Byron just had a special way of pissing everyone around him the fuck off. 

“Okay you two, no cat fights today. Now please explain what the hell happened last night,” Cole said, hands still on his hips like a mom breaking up a fight between two kids. 

“Fine. Whatever.” Mickey sighed, taking a big gulp of coffee, emptying the mug, before diving in. 

He told them all about Howard, about how he paid for the champagne room and managed to slip something in his drink, how he got handsy and wouldn’t stop when Mickey told him to. Both Cole and Byron flinched at that, commiserating. They both knew how scary it could be when a client wouldn’t take no for an answer, especially when you were in a private room with them. 

He told them about waiting for someone to come in and when he tried to go for the panic button he was stumbling and felt weak. Relayed all of the disgusting things Howard had said to him while touching himself before attacking him. His roommates knew Mickey wasn’t prone to exaggeration, either of his travails or of the hot redhead who’d come to save his ass.

He told them all about the diner; he bitched about the expensive pancakes, and how he both wanted to fuck Ian, and didn’t want him to be like every other guy he encountered at work. Then of course he couldn't help go into detail, he still managed to paint a clear visual picture of those intense green eyes, the obnoxiously red hair, the fact that he seemed like an absolute giant, height wise, those beautifully broad shoulders, and those arms and hands. These hands that were so rough from work and his bulging biceps, the perfect combo to hold him down or pick him up to just pound into him-

“Okay, hold up,” Cole pulled him from his ramblings that had gotten a bit too erotic and grabbed his phone off the counter. 

“You said this guy's name is Ian? You think he’s from the area?” He asked, running a careless hand through his bleached hair as he thought hard. 

“No clue. He seemed to know his way around the South Side. I’ve hardly met any Patsy’s regulars who aren’t South Side,” Mickey shrugged, Cole didn’t comment though, he just hummed, nodding and typing away on his phone. 

“Cole, the fuck-” Byron tried to lean over so he could read Cole’s screen, but Cole leaned away, hiding his research from prying eyes.

“Sh. Lemme do my magic,” Cole waved him off, as he shot an evil look at Byron, who just shrugged dolefully.

“Well, how the fuck was your night?” Mickey asked instead, turning his stool to face his ex, slouching down and propping his feet up on the stool between them as he sipped his coffee. 

“Oh, you know, shaking ass for cash,” Bryon replied. “It wasn’t nearly as eventful as yours.” 

Mickey snorted into his coffee cup. 

“We” Bryon put the emphasis on him and Cole, “do this every weekend, stalk up the hot ones, the ones who look like they have money, add them in insta, see if they have a tiktok. It's like organically growing a relationship.” He ended with a flourish. “You just never noticed, All-High-And-Mighty-And-Waiting-For-True-Love Milkovich.”

_ Way to twist the knife. _

“You know it ain’t like that, Byron.” Mickey felt like he’d explained this over and over. “We’re all better friends than we would ever be lovers, not long term. And is that even what we all want? Long term, satisfying relationships with men who worship us the way we worship them? Sounds like a lotta work…” Also, it was the only way Mickey saw himself having any future that didn’t end in either homicide at his father’s hand or suicide at his own.

Byron nodded passive-aggressively, and Mickey recognized that the guy still carried a major torch for him. Maybe living together hadn’t been such a great plan, but it has seemed so smart at first, one third of the bills, roommates who understood the lifestyle….

Fuck, he was too tired for this. All Mickey wanted was a long hot shower and some alone time to think about Ian, Ian’s fists and his mouth, on his knees, maybe on top of him... He pressed down on his surging cock as he hurried past the table, knowing Cole at least had caught on and was cackling to himself.

“Fuck off!” He yelled, slamming his door behind him, flopping back onto his bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. 

Images of Ian instantly began to play in his head. All from the night before. The way his biceps flexed as he was driving had Mickey groaning but was nothing near how hot he’d looked beating the shit out of Howard. Flexing muscles, used with brutality. It shouldn’t turn Mickey on, and if anyone ever asked, he wouldn’t admit it but… it got his dick hard, ok?

Mickey didn’t need anyone coming to his rescue but he wouldn’t lie and say Ian defending his fucking honor wasn’t attractive. 

The imagine of those strong arms brought on an entirely different image of Ian manhandling him, pushing against the nearest flat surface or maybe picking him up and fucking him roughly against a wall, one of the work rough hands coming up to wrap around his neck as he just pounded into him. 

“Fuck,” Mickey breathed, hand slipping under the band of those black sweats, the thought of them being Ian’s turning him on even more. 

His mind drifted though. Normally the fantasies of the hard and rough sex he craved could get him off. But then he started picturing sweet and slow. Ian wrapped him up in those muscular arms, holding him tight against his chest as he fucked him slow and deep. Caressing his face and kissing him sweetly. 

His body shuddered at the imagines his mind provided, his hand stroking his cock the same way he pictured Ian giving it to him. Jaw falling open, letting out a panting gasp as he imagined that honey sweet, deep voice whispering sweet nothings into his ear as they rode out their orgasms together. 

Mickey came with a gasp, over his hand, wet and warm, thighs trembling and eyes squeezed shut.  _ Fuck, fuck fuck.  _ Mickey chanted mentally, eyes blinking open slowly to stare at the ceiling in a post orgasmic haze. 

God, he felt good. Weirdly good. His body was tingly and warm and he was still picturing Ian, wondering how he’d act after they came together. Would he pull Mickey into his chest? Kiss his forehead and tell him how good he was? Wrap them up in a sheet? Or carry him to the shower? 

How could he have it so bad for someone he’d only spend a couple of hours with? He didn’t believe in that love at first sight bullshit but he was definitely a believer in lusting for the hot redhead who had too many freckles to count. 

Mickey wanted him, he wanted him bad. So bad in fact that Ian was the only thing on his mind as his eyes drifted closed again. 

“Milkovich, wake the fuck up!” Cole called giddily, pushing open Mickey’s door and turning on his light. 

“Cole? The fuck?-”

“Shut up, I found your mans,” He  _ giggled,  _ flopping onto the bed next to Mickey and holding his 100% brightness phone entirely too close to Mickey’s still bleary eyes. 

“Fuck,” He groaned, grabbing Cole’s wrist and pulling before finally snatching the phone away. 

Sure enough, staring back at him was the Instagram page of  _ ian.g0305.  _ It wasn’t anything fancy, just a typical himbo guy’s minimal page but it was  _ him _ . The hot red head with a fucking hero complex. He could feel Cole practically vibrating next to him with excitement as he looked through the page. It had the usual pretty-boy shots, some with obvious family members, a few children.  _ Ew _ . No ring that Mickey could see, so there was hope. And no fish, thank fuck.

But he didn’t look fabulously wealthy, or at least not rich enough to drop thousand dollar leather coats for every ho he saved. 

No, Ian just looked like some other dude to Mickey. And if that meant he could possibly see him again at the club, all the better. Maybe, possibly, to steal more of his fancy-ass clothes. 

“Did you at least get his last name?” Cole was trying to ascertain whether the Instagram Ian was really the same as Mickey's Ian and coming up dead ends. It was a mystery that was unlikely to be solved anytime soon: a hot ass mystery that Mickey planned to jerk off about again that night. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey has a show to put on, no matter how hot the man in the audience is.

It was Friday night and Mickey was back on the schedule- and not just as a backup dancer. Tonight he was a headliner, which meant he got to pick the music, he got to set the stage, and he got a cut of the door fees. It was his favorite day of the month and he hoped like hell his mystery redhead _Ian_ would get to see it. 

Backstage with the other dancers, Mickey was applying his last-second makeup. The glitter, the lip gloss, the eye liner, they all needed to be done at the last moment, or the effect would be lost when he sauntered into the spotlight and opened his big blue eyes for the first time. 

It worked every time, even to rubes who attended regularly. Mickey would open his eyes wide, spread his thighs on the seat of the rattan chair, and pull a pair of long, blue, silk gloves off with his teeth. Then he’d get to work. The set list always changed, whatever he was in the mood for, what new dances he’d been trying out, a throwback or two for the old timers. Those guys tipped like crazy when he threw in classic Club Kid songs. 

After what felt like an eternity of warm up acts and dancers, finally, the MC called him up, and Mickey took the stage. His show started with total darkness, Mickey on a chair. When the spotlight came on, he looked into the crowd, as he always did, trying to find the one guy he’d be dancing for tonight, a solo show in his own mind, at least, but then he saw him. 

It was the guy from the night before, Ian. Only he _wasn’t_ dressed like a factory worker anymore. He had on a [ deep purple suit ](https://purewows3.imgix.net/images/articles/2018_10/Cameron_Monaghan_in_suit.jpg?auto=format,compress&cs=strip&fit=min&w=600&h=315), clearly custom fitted, cream color button down, an air force blue tie, and an incongruous gold with black polka dots pocket square. Instead of messy hair that hung in greasy hanks over his forehead, he’d clearly just had a haircut, and used a product to pull his red hair back. The facial hair was still there, and Mickey’s mouth hung open for a moment as he just… looked.

The crowd seemed to realize something was up; their noises changing from laughter and light, quiet comments to full _rhubarb-rhubarb_ conversations.

Desperately, Mickey gave the MC the cue to change the music, even if [ Def Leppard ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0UIB9Y4OFPs) wasn’t quite done with Mickey’s signature intro. He didn’t have the time or the space to indulge his curiosity: how Ian was there, why he looked like that, or what it could all mean. He had work to do. And if Ian was gonna up the stakes looking like _that,_ Mickey was gonna do his damndest to make it worth the while. Whoever he was, if he could go from hobo to hottie overnight, and didn’t immediately piss Mickey off to talk to? Mickey was interested, intrigued. 

The song change kicked in, and Mickey let his posture loosen, hit the rhythm, slide his joggers down to the points of his hips and ass, flexing his arms over his head, showing off his delts. 

By the time his turns and curves around the set brought him back to the front of the stage cum walkway, Ian was nowhere to be seen. That was a surprise, but Mickey took it as a challenge, and increased the sensuality of his movements, adding some lip syncing, as it applied. 

_“_ _My man is smooth like Barry, and his voice got bass, A body like Arnold with a Denzel face, He's smart like a doctor with a real good rep...”_

All those stupid afternoons with Mandy after school watching MTV and memorizing lyrics were standing him in good stead, as he leaned in to a random guy by the end of the stage, pulling his tie, singing just to him, “ _He's not a fake wannabe tryin' to be a pimp, He dresses like a dapper don, but even in jeans, He's a God sent original, the man of my dreams…_ ”

Mickey kept working the crowd, giving them his best for five minutes, but constantly scanning the room, looking up to the private booths until he found Ian, just as the lyrics came through, “ _So here's to the future 'cause we got through the past, I finally found someone that can make me laugh See other guys that I've had, they tried to play all that mac shit, but every time they tried I said, "That's not it….”_

Mickey went for some acrobatic shit, using the [ shiny, silver poles ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Itoy8K_oxnQ) in the middle of the stage, just lip syncing the rest of the song as he mimicked sex with some nameless guy from the crowd. 

_“With him I'm never losin', and he knows that my name is not, He always has heavy conversation for the mind, Which means a lot to me 'cause good men are hard to find…”_

As the lyrics trailed away, sliding into [ Sia’s Chandelier ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2vjPBrBU-TM), Mickey finally caught sight of Ian, tucked in closely at a round high-flyer table, champagne bottles everywhere, and a surprise guest, squeezing as close as he could to Ian’s side. 

It was Byron, Mickey’s own bitchy ex and current roommate.

Mickey didn’t even make a pretense of a cute or pretty ending, just dropped, flatfooted, and stalked backstage, as the confused MC worked to distract the crowd from Mickey’s wild lack of professionalism, “And tonight, we have the owner in the house, please take a bow, Mr. Ian Gallagher!”

_Ian. Ian Gallagher. Mr. Ian Gallagher._

Mickey had worked at the club long enough to know it was owned by a Gallagher, but Ian? _His_ Ian?

Mickey was already backstage, but he could venomously imagine Ian standing, looking bashful, Byron on one strong arm, waving to his patrons. That fucker!

He wasn’t sure who he was madder at: himself, for almost falling for the Pretty Woman fairy tail of a rich guy, his own boss, no less, at Byron for making a move on a guy Mickey had obviously claimed, or Ian, for whatever confusing role he played in this whole mess. Now Mickey had 30 minutes before he had to go work the floor again, in the mandatory skimpy little outfit. He was already planning how to fuck with Byron and make Ian look at him like… like he was the special one again, like he was the only one in the room, or in the world.

It was so confusing. Mickey was sure as fuck frustrated at himself for being so mad over something so petty, but he kinda thought him and Ian had been feeling each other, especially after the diner. Knowing he was his boss: it was probably all some big scam, he probably played this little game with all the dancers. Play the hero; try to get laid. Maybe Mickey should have just given in at the diner, let the guy fuck him once, but he just _had_ to go and play hard to get; now Byron was moving in. 

_Fucking Byron._ Mickey snarled quietly. Should have known better than to say anything to Byron about the - was he calling it a date? Encounter? Whatever. He’d been jonesing for Mickey - either to fuck him or fuck him over, ever since they’d broken up. Going after every guy Mickey even flirted with, or even showed any attention to. Byron had even gone after Mickey’s regulars because he was so very desperate, even tried (*and failed) to hit on Mandy. Not that she swung that way these days. She was all pussy, all day, even since a bad breakup in high school. 

And now here Byron was all over Ian. The boss, and Mickey’s crush of the week. _His_ Ian.

Okay, maybe not his. But he could very well have been Mickey’s. That was the whole reason he’d gone all out tonight: he was anticipating seeing that stupid, frecklely, ginger, giant the whole time since he’d left that god forsaken diner with the expensive pancakes. He was looking forward to the heated looks, the inevitable flirting, the manhandling, and eventually, a nice thorough fucking. 

Why couldn’t this work out for him? He had really liked Ian, and Mickey never liked anyone, really. He found guys hot, but couldn’t tolerate their personalities, the clingy, posturing bullshit. Byron obviously loved bottoming, but he was prissy, no size queen so why would he bother with Ian's BDE, except to fuck with Mickey?

With Ian, it had all clicked; he knew Ian felt it too, he could feel it, see it in Ian’s eyes, he couldn’t fake that. Mickey was a fucking professional at being told men loved him- he had a bullshit radar the size of Ariceibo. 

With that one glimpse of the two men on the balcony, he’d seen it all. He saw how it would go down, he saw the way Byron was all over Ian. Ian would be a fucking idiot to turn that down, he’d probably already gotten them a private room and was balls deep in Byron’s skinny ass, while Mickey was back here moping and pacing the length of the dressing room. 

Well, fuck that shit. Mickey had a job to do, and if it meant fucking up Byron’s little scheme, all the better,


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So you own everything here, huh? Some opulence!

Ian walked into the club knowing he looked good. He rarely dressed this way, and never to work. But he had another of those interminable meetings scheduled where the other side picked the location. The only bonus would be if Ian got a peek at Mickey: wandering around would be good, but dancing would be so much better. Alas, Ian didn’t know the stage schedule. Didn’t imagine himself so lucky as to catch Mickey performing for real, but he’d dream, dreamt about it all night. About the music he’d pick, the moves he’d make, whether he’d see Ian in the crowd and mark him out, or if it would all be done for some anonymous man Ian would burn with jealousy for.

Maybe Mickey would see him, would put on a show for him and after, the MC would make an announcement about the “big boss” being in the house and Ian would stand up and make his presence known and …. He didn’t know how the rest of that particular fantasy would play out. 

He wasn’t actually there just to work-stalk Mickey. He had to court some new investors, the McMillan brothers, if he wanted to keep the club afloat, so he’d arranged the private table in the big rollers section, and gotten there early just to prep himself, talk himself through all the excellent reasons the club was a sound investment.

But instead of doing that, his eyes were captured by Mickey on the stage. Ian was only half hearing the music, but something about it was familiar, made him smile and stretch his arms back across the full velvet banquette. That there was someone sitting next to him, effectively now in the warm shelter of his arm, never crossed his smitten mind. He only had eyes and ears for Mickey.

Until the investor and his partner showed up, and Ian stood, smoothing his palms down his thighs, trying desperately to will away the erection Mickey’s dancing had provoked. After introducing himself, the investors looked expectantly at the man, the dancer, beside Ian. Shit. He didn’t have any idea what the guy’s name was, only that it was some moronic high brow nom de plume.

“I’m Byron,” the dancer answered for him coquettishly. “Everyone seems to like the effect when I stand next to Ia- I mean, Mr. Gallagher.” He was referring to their shared red hair, but where Ian had varying shades of flame, Byron had Ronald-McDonald orange curls. And that deliberate near-slip, suggesting they were more than employer-employee? Ian turned, fire in his eyes, but his investor spoke up.

“Let’s get some drinks, and we can talk equity.”

That sufficiently distracted Ian until the next time he was able to glance at the stage, and Mickey was gone. Fuck, he’d missed the rest of his performance. Didn’t mean he couldn’t go rewatch it on the club’s security camera. And rewatch it again. And again. Later, though. When he didn’t have a weirdly clingy dancer on one arm and this crucial investor hopefully on the hook for a few million in capital investments.

He was sat at one of the high rise tables, surrounded by booze, potential business partners and an annoying little red-head that kept trying to grab his attention. 

Once the two McMillans were sufficiently soused, one wandered off to the bathroom, and the other down to the dance floor. Ian hadn’t come into his earnings simply by being reliable. He could spot a closet-case a mile away. Bring ‘em down to the club, ply them with alcohol, and let the rest work itself out. Best case, he made deals, worst case, he got some blackmail material for the future. But these two were cheesecake, Northside preppie boys gone soft around the middle, still hoping to find a perfect angel to keep on the side.

Shit, that described him, a little bit too. Not the northside shit, not the soft part, but the still hoping for someone…

His musings were interrupted by a question from the dancer at his side, pressed uncomfortably close, hand on the inside of Ian’s thigh.

“So  [ you own everything ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/d932c4e5326c604d2503a07802ae76ad/tenor.gif?itemid=13965767) here, huh? Some  [ opulence ](https://media1.tenor.com/images/e728722a91043744983f7d0415e46fa4/tenor.gif?itemid=13668281) !” But he said the word wrong, like with a soft, lisping ‘l’ that Ian didn’t recognize.

“Well, no. The bank owns everything, and I won’t own anything if those two guys don’t have a good time tonight,” he tried to answer rationally, sliding the guy’s palm  _ off  _ his leg firmly.

“Don’t worry about it, peaches.” The guy wasn’t taking the cue, had both hands pressed to the bench seat, pressing up so he could whisper in Ian’s ear, breath hot, wet, and stinking. “Your very best dancer’s down there with them, shaking his gold-plated ass.”

Ian shoved Byron roughly away and rushed to the railing, looking wildly for the gold-plated ass in question. His eyes scanned the crowd. Nothing, nothing- but then-

There he was. Mickey, looking like he was having the time of his life dancing with one of the McMillans, dancing like he wasn’t doing it for money, reveling in the touches of the men.  _ WAY  _ more touching than was usually allowed on the floor. Ian felt his face and neck burning, heat down his chest; he felt like the hulk, on the very verge of exploding and leaping over the edge, grabbing Mickey and stealing him away, pissing on him, maybe. But McMillan was having a good time, looking blissed out, probably high.  _ Shit _ .

He hadn’t realized, but Byron had sidled back up next to him like a persistent snake. “Don’t worry about the suits. I gave them enough E to keep them rolling for days. Best night of their lives, even if they weren’t gonna take Mickey home and take turns fucking him.”

Mickey. Getting spit-roasted. Mickey, getting DP’d. Mickey giving sloppy, wet head to two cocks, saliva dripping everywhere. The thoughts were terrible, hurtful, but also fucking hot.  _ Fuck _ .

Ian saw red. He turned, slowly, knowing he couldn’t hit the guy, not without bringing down more shit than he already had on his plate. He brought his fingers up, pinching Byron’s sharp little chin between them, pointing his face up in an evil mockery of the moment before a kiss. The blue eyes still hadn’t caught on, his face still a knowing smirk, thinking he’d won, somehow.

“Never, Byron. Never, if you were the last man on earth. Never, even if your dick was the fountain of youth and cured hemorrhoids. You get my drift?”

Byron roughly pulled his chin out of Ian’s tight grasp, frowning. “That’s what I get for flirting with the boss? Mockery?”

“No, what you should get for flirting with the boss is  _ fired _ ,” Ian replied, his calm restored for the moment. He appreciated the look of shock and horror that came over Bryon’s impish little face.

“Fired?!”

“No, that’s what I said you should get. Keep up, asshole. You’re not being fired, because that’s now how I do things here. No, you’re get demoted to coat check for life. Because if you can’t flatter your boss convincingly or take no for an answer, you’re 100% a liability in this business.”

Suddenly, Ian felt eyes on his back, coming up the iron spiral staircase to the private lounges. Only one set of blue eyes had ever affected him like that. He turned, trying not to look too guilty, hoping Mickey wouldn’t get the wrong idea from him being alone up here with Byron.

Too late. Mickey stopped at the stop of the steps, calves bulging and thighs quivering from walking up the spirals in the heeled sneakers he wore. His face was a tight clench of anger, of jealousy, Ian sincerely hoped, and before any words or excuses could be exchanged, Mickey spun, and stomped down the way he’d come. 

What could he have seen, to set him off? Ian and Byron were arguing in each other’s faces, no physical contact, no hint of…. Oh. Ian looked down, and saw that Byron was fully hard in his skin-tight gold lame shorts. He took a step away from the dancer, from the one ruining all his plans.

Ian was legitimately worried, not about any sort of made up fidelity - they only had one meal together, but because Mickey seemed mad, like  _ really  _ mad, and Mickey’s needs were already starting to have real weight for Ian. This soon? Was that a bad sign, a sign things were moving too fast?. Maybe, but he didn’t fucking care. All he knew was he wanted Mickey to have what he wanted, to feel secure and safe and if he wanted this tired-ass showgirl of a twink out of the picture, he’d be checking coats at McDonalds by Tuesday.

He hurried down the stairs to find Mickey, leaving Byron to stew in his own turned-on misery.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Try too hard doesn’t get me hard, in case you hadn't noticed.

Mickey wasn’t mad, he wasn’t pissed off. He was fucking  _ furious _ . He felt the heat flooding his face from the moment he saw Ian right up in Byron’s face, seeing them so close together, seeing him right where he wanted to be. He felt like he was overreacting and knew he shouldn’t have run off like a petulant child but he couldn’t help it. He had never wanted anyone as badly as he wanted Ian, someone he felt this odd instant connection with, and seeing him so blatantly accepting the advances of someone else twisted his heart the the most stupid painful way.  _ Stupid stupid stupid,  _ the echo in his head ran.

The exit door slammed against the brick wall as he stormed outside. The chilly Chicago air made his skin crawl but he was too wound up to go back inside and grab his coat where he knew he’d left it in his rush to grab his shit and get outside. Grumbling to himself about  _ stupid fucking gingers fucking with his feelings  _ as he ripped open his bag and rifled around for his cigarettes and a lighter. Mickey huffed in frustration, hands shaking so bad he wasn’t sure he would ever get the damn thing to light. 

Sighing as the smoke finally filled his lungs, acting almost as an instant full body palliative, he slumped back against the wall, eyes sliding closed as he slowly exhaled the smoke into the night air.  _ Stupid stupid stupid. _

Why did he let himself get so pissed? Why did he let himself get so lost in his feelings for a guy he barely knew? Did he really think he could have this  _ Pretty Woman  _ fantasy? That it would actually work out for him? Nothing worked out for him. 

“Baby?” 

Mickey opened his eyes to find Cole letting the door shut softly behind him as he walked out into the cold. His tight mesh top doing as little to keep him warm as Mickey’s crop top was. Without asking Cole dug a cigarette out of his bag, walking over and leaning close to light his cigarette off of Mickey’s. Moving away slowly he leaned against the opposite wall. 

“You should’ve got with me while you had the chance,” Cole broke the silence and Mickey snorted a quiet laugh. “Seriously though, I saw the whole thing with Byron and your red-head. You okay?” 

Mickey looked down at his feet for a moment, biting at the corner of his mouth, a nervous habit he’s had since he was a kid, and fought the question over. 

“I don’t know,” He decided to answer, his shoulders shaking as a chill wracked his body. 

“I’m kicking him out,” Cole said after a moment, waiting for Mickey to look up, “He’s had too many chances and I’m sorry I never kicked him out before, I should have. But tonight? He went too far.” 

“You don’t have to…” Mickey trailed off, a small shake to his head but he knew Cole wouldn’t take no for an answer once his mind was made up. 

“Mickey?” His name echoing through the alley had his head snapping up. He would know that voice anywhere even if he had only heard it once. 

\----

He’d looked everywhere in the club for the dark-haired man but hadn’t expected to find him with a vicious scowl.

“Is everything ok? I’m sorry I missed the end of your set but…”

“Oh, so you’re the twatwaffle who thought it was cool to hook up with multiple dancers, and who claims to own the joint?” The sassy voice came from a man Ian hadn’t noticed immediately, a lanky dancer with tan skin wearing the typical dancer’s outfit of skimpy shorts and a faux tie.

“Yeah, I own the- wait, what? I haven’t hooked up with anyone, let alone multiple employees,” Ian protested, holding his hands up defensively.  _ This was bad. This was lawsuit-bad. This was losing Mickey right in front of his eyes-bad. _

“So we didn’t see you and another ginger asshole together in a VIP booth during Mickey’s show? What, are you  _ that  _ narcissistic that you only like other fire crotches?”

Ian turned to face Mickey, who was smoking, letting his coworker do all the talking. “Mickey, Mick, you have you know I didn’t- I wouldn’t! Like, not ever, not even if you and I- I mean, even if you weren’t-” he gestured helplessly up and down Mickey’s body, “like, the walking epitome of sex on a stick. That guy has nothing on you, and I told him that; I fucking fired him!”

Mickey arched an eyebrow, but only blew out a trail of smoke, still not speaking.

“Wait, you fired Byron?” The other dancer sounded honestly curious.

“Of course I did! He thought he could pull some power play by hitting on me before a business meeting- like I’d ever look twice at him.”

“Well,” the tall dancer turned to Mickey, “at least now I have grounds to kick him out. No job, no bed, them’s the rules.”

Ian was processing the whole thing as fast as he could, trying to make sense of it all. “Byron is your roommate? Wait, so you’re Cole?” He finally gave the third man his attention. Mickey had spoken briefly about his living situation, and Ian recalled that this was- what, his ex?

“The one, the only, the man who broke the mold.” Cole gave a theatrical bow. “Oops, I hear my music starting,” he giggled. There was patently no music audible in the alley, but Ian was deeply grateful for the blatant exit. “Time to go shake my money maker and maybe find my own hot business owner!” Cole grinned and leaned over to kiss Mickey on the cheek, making clear eye contact with Ian as he did so, marking how Ian seemed to swell with anger, arms crossing across his not-insubstantial chest.

“Have fun boys, stay safe!” Then he disappeared back into the club, leaving Mickey and Ian alone in the dark alley.

Ian’s mouth was suddenly dry; he wanted to say more, say anything, do  _ something  _ but all he could do was stare at Mickey pathetically, waiting for judgement.

\----

Mickey stood there silently, keeping Ian’s gaze as he brought the cigarette up to his lips. Man, he wanted to hate this guy, he wanted to be pissed off enough to punch him in the face but he just wasn’t. He was too tired. He thought they might’ve had something real, for a moment, or could’ve had something. So, instead of hitting him he held out the cigarette in offering, only slightly surprised when Ian actually took it. 

He watched Ian lean against the wall next to him, close but not too close and Mickey had the urge to lean in. Wanting to feel that body against his again and make sure he got a good feel this time. 

“You know—” Ian started, blowing the smoke out as he passed the cigarette back to Mickey, “I thought you knew who I was.” 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t,” Mickey snapped, shooting a sideway glare at Ian without any real heat behind it. 

“I know that  _ now _ but by the time I realized you didn’t know who I was, didn’t know I was your boss, it felt too late to just - to just drop that on you,” Ian sgtammeringly tried to explain but Mickey’s glare didn’t relent. 

“So what? You show up here tonight, like this—” He gestured to Ian’s body, “—to what? Surprise me? Humiliate me? Show me what I can’t have?” 

“What? No. Fuck no! None of that. Mick, you gotta believe me it’s not like that, I wouldn’t do that,” Ian shook his head, pushing off the wall so he was standing in front of the shorter man, watching him angrily toss away the cigarette before blowing the smoke right in his face— and if that made Ian’s dick twitch, well, he would have to contemplate that later. 

“Then what, huh?” Mickey snarled straightening up so he was just a fraction of an inch away from them being pressed together. 

“Did it ever occur to you that I wanted to see your ass, you, again? In case you forgot  _ you  _ were the one playing hard to get!” Ian nearly shouted, his tone full of frustration. making Mickey’s eyes narrow. 

“Maybe because any guy that tries to pick up a stripper only wants one thing from them! So fucking sorry- I was trying to protect myself from someone who could have just been any other John trying to take advantage. And hard to get gets me hard fuck you very much!” Mickey was nearly nose to nose with Ian now stretched up as much as he could with their heaving chest pressed together. 

Their eyes locked and all of that anger was so built up that there was only one thing they could do, only one thing Mickey  knew would make that anger disappear. He surged forward, pulling Ian in by the dark purple lapels of his suit jacket and pressed their lips together. 

The kiss was heated and Mickey moaned when he felt those big rough hands on his sides, one sneaking up under his top and the other moving to grasp the back of his head. The tongue in his mouth was more than welcome and Mickey had no problem fighting for the dominance he would happily give over when Ian tried to take it— and take it he did. 

Ian’s tongue pushed back and tangled with his, easily dominating the kiss and pushing Mickey back against the brick wall. He smirked at the gasp the shorter man let out from the action, dipping down to nip at his ear lobe. 

“I came back for you. That meeting, I moved it tonight because I hoped you would be here. I wanted to fucking see you so I came back for you and I didn’t want to wait,” Ian confessed, feeling Mickey shiver from warm breath against chilled skin. 

“And you really fired Byron?” 

“Fuck, yeah.” The red brows frowned, “Not only was I completely uninterested but he was trying way too hard to get my attention,” Ian left out the part where he was absolutely livid when Byron told him he specifically set it up for Mickey to give his business partners a lap dance, but maybe it would come up later. “Try too hard doesn’t get me hard, in case you hadn't noticed, Ian"

“Fuck, come here,” Mickey breathed, panting kissess into Ian’s mouth, pulling Ian into for another heated kiss, deep and passionate as he pushed the suit jacket off of wide muscular shoulders. 

“I might’ve been playing hard to get, but all I’ve thought about is you fucking me since the first time we made eye contact that night,” Mickey moaned as Ian’s lips trailed along his neck, nipping at the skin here and there. 

“I wanted to fuck you so bad, how could I not? Look at you and don’t even get me started on the way you move your body—fuck!” Ian groaned, grinding his pants-clad cock against Mickey’s. 

“You gonna fuck me now, boss man?” Mickey smirked, roughly yanking the button down shirt from where it was neatly tucked into dark purple slacks with no care for niceties like buttons.

“Mm. Don’t start with that, I’ll get greedy and demand you call me that all the time,” He smirked, pushing up the crop top to squeeze and pinch at Mickey’s nipple, relishing in the delicious moan it pulled from the other man's surprised lips. Sounded like no one had paid enough attention to cataloguing his erogenous zones, but Ian was up for the job. 

“Everytime, huh? What makes you think this isn’t just a hookup?” Mickey teased, nipping at the rust-colored stubble on Ian’s chin. 

Ian shook his head away, softly, so as not to dislodge Mickey’s bite. “Nah, if you just wanted a booty call you wouldn’t have been so jealous of Byron.” 

“Jealous?” Mickey scoffed, “I’m not jealous. I’m possessive.”

Ian let out an uncharacteristic mewl when Mickey leaned in to suck a dark mark under his jawline. staking his claim and Ian had no qualms about that. 

“Lucky for you I’m just as possessive, now turn around and let me see that ass,” Ian growled, not giving Mickey a chance before he was grabbing his hips and twisting him around. 

The cold brick was uncomfortable against Mickey’s bare skin but like hell he was gonna complain with Ian pressed flush against his back and pushing his cheek with a hand threaded tightly through his black hair. A loud moan reverberated through the alley when a big hand came down roughly on the side of his ass cheek, then Ian seemed to sit back and watch Mickey’s flesh jiggle and heat as it fell back into place.

“Fuck— this ass is heavenly and I’m gonna fucking worship it,” He grunted against Mickey’s ear, before slipping his hand down those damn shorts that clung to him just right. 

“You gonna keep talking or are you gonna actually do it,” Mickey snarked, his breath coming out in a cool puff against the wall. 

Without another word Ian yanked those little shorts down, taking a second to admire that perfectly bubbled butt before bringing his hand down forcefully on the other cheek. 

Mickey couldn’t contain the whimper this time, letting it reach Ian’s ears, let him know he how much he liked being handled like this while praised.

“Yeah, you like that. Such a dirty boy just like I imagined, I bet you like it good and hard, don’t you?” 

“Fuck yeah, give it to me Ian. Let me feel that cock,” Mickey keened, pressing his ass against the bulge behind him, shivering when he was pushed harshly against the wall and held there with a hand on his lower back. 

The sound of a zipper sliding down echoed in his ears before the familiar sound of a lube cap popping open. Mickey didn’t have it in him to make a snarky comment about how stupidly optimistic Ian was for carrying around lube— no, he couldn’t think about anything when a big slick cock slid between his ass cheeks. Only the burn and stretch took over his mind. By the time he got words back, they were obvious and inane. “Holy shit, you’re big,” Mickey gasped, rolling his hips back minutely to try to get a better feel. 

“Think you can take me?” Ian teased, nudging the thick tip against his rim, earning yet another gasp. 

Mickey didn’t answer, just rolled his hips back again, whimpering when he felt slippery fingers pushing in to prep him quickly. He couldn’t even tell when they’d got to this point, too distracted by the lips on his neck and the erection sliding along his ass cheek to really pay attention to much else. That is until he felt that same cock nudging at his entrance again. 

“Fuck—“ Mickey’s dragged out moan mixing with Ian’s hiss of pleasure as that little ring of muscle gave way and let him slip in. 

“Oh, that’s good. Gallagher, fuck.” 

“Fuck, Mick. Yeah, look at that. I knew you could take it, take it so good,” Ian groaned, watching as he disappeared into that greedy pink hole, opening and swallowing his dick obediently.

“Please!” 

“Please, what?” Ian smirked, running his tongue over the shell of Mickey’s ear. 

“Fuckin’ fuck me, already. Take me, make me yours!” Mickey cried, pushing his hips back flush against Ian’s. He was tired of this romintical shit- he wanted to feel Ian everywhere: now and tomorrow.

Ian was hot. Despite the chilly air— a thought that would later make him feel bad since Mickey was practically naked— his body was on fire from that tight heat surrounding him. One hand grasped a curvy hip and the other came up tangling in those raven locks to push Mickey’s face against the wall again. Pulling his hips back slowly before he thrust all the way home in one hard movement that made Mickey’s knees buckle, Ian’s body pressed tight to his the only thing that held him up. 

“Easy, baby. We haven’t even started yet,” Ian taunted, pressing a sloppy kiss to the corner of Mickey’s mouth before setting a punishing pace, thrusting hard and fast. 

Mickey couldn’t get any reply out even if he wanted to. Nothing but whimpering moans, swears and cries of Ian’s name. Fuck, he was right. He was so right. He knew from the moment he laid eyes on Ian that they would have amazing sex, knew that Ian would give it to him exactly how he needed it. Rough and shoved up against a wall, where the brick was rough enough to scrape his cheek, grip so tightly it would leave bruises, big cock slamming into his prostate, working him over until his mind was nothing but a staticy haze of pleasure and  _ Ian, Ian, Ian.  _

“Ian! Oh, I’m close!” Mickey finally managed to cry out, fingers doing their best to find purchase of the wall in front of him.  “You dick, why’d you stop—“

“Shut up,” Ian rolled his eyes with a feral grin, roughly turning him around, grabbing him by his thigh, high heels clacking behind Ian’s back as he lifted Mickey up like it was nothing, “Wanna see you when I cum in this sexy ass.” 

And that was all it took for Mickey to press their mouths together again, Ian sliding back in easily and picking up that brutal pace from before. 

“Right there! Ian!” Mickey cried, the new angle giving Ian the perfect leverage to pound against his prostate. 

Mickey’s eyes rolled back when a big hand wrapped around his cock, slick with spit, and jerking him at the same pace of those bone-wracking thrusts. 

“That’s it, Mick. Let go, give it to me,” Mickey gasped, hands clawing at any part of Ian that he could reach, orgasm washing over him just as teeth grazed his neck. 

Ian’s thrusts didn’t let up though. Mickey whispered from the sensitivity but rolled his hips to meet Ian thrust for thrust, wanting to give it as good as he just got it— and damn it was good. 

“C’mon Ian, come in me, make me yours,” Mickey moaned into his mouth, tongue sliding in to tangle with Ian’s. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Mickey!” Ian moaned, shuddering as he fucked into Mickey one last time before holding himself deep and letting go. 

That feeling, coming deep in Mickey like that, claiming him, that was something he could get used to. Something he wants to do every day for the rest of his life, especially if it got Mickey moaning his name the way he just had. 

They stayed there. Clinging to one another, faces buried against shoulders, soft kisses on necks and Ian’s body shielding as much of Mickey’s body from the wind as he could in their position. 

Yeah. They could both get used to this. Aside from the cold drip of cum from Mickey’s ass and on his belly. 

Mickey, still held up by Ian’s arms, reached out and grabbed the taller man’s pocket square, roughly wiping his abs and then reaching down to do the best he could for his ass. Ian watched in bemusement, not the least put out by the pocket square’s having cost more than his first car. This was worth it.


End file.
